Dutch and Hosea moved with purpose through Valentine's bustling clothing stores, their eyes sharp, assessing every stitch, every price. This wasn't merely shopping; it was a reconnaissance mission, a strategic maneuver in their grand plan.
Outside, the air hung thick with the biting scent of woodsmoke and desperation. Arthur and David slouched on a rough bench, cigarettes dangling, their gazes locked onto a gaunt figure weaving through the intersection.
"Gentlemen, contribute your strength! Do some charity! Gentlemen!"
Mr. Downs, a skeletal man with feverish eyes, wailed his plea, his voice raw, cracking with a sorrow that seemed to echo through the very cobblestones. He clamored for donations, a constant fixture at the Valentine intersection, yet no one truly understood his cause. They only knew he was always there, a persistent, mournful specter.
"Oh, Arthur, I never figured there'd be such a charitable sight in this town,"
David sneered, a cruel laugh tearing from his throat as he watched Downs.
"Truly a spectacle! He begs others for charity, yet why doesn't he send his own wife out to sell herself? Wouldn't that bring in a healthy sum for his cause? Hahahahaha!"
David's mockery, sharp and venomous, grated against the raw edge of the day. He and Mac, unwavering in their loyalty to the gang, possessed a moral compass twisted beyond recognition.
Arthur let out a dry, mirthless chuckle, a sound devoid of genuine amusement. Redemption was still a distant concept, his body not yet ravaged, his emotional core hardened by years of survival. He offered no further taunt, but his silence was complicit.
A nearby laborer, hunched over a crate, caught David's cruel jest and barked a laugh of his own.
"Oh, mister, what you said rings true as a church bell! That Mr. Downs, always on about charity, he ain't no good man. Elsewise, folks wouldn't turn a blind eye like he's a ghost."
"Oh? What makes you say that, mister?"
David turned, curiosity glinting in his eyes, and Arthur's gaze followed, intrigued. Without the oppressive shadow of Mr. Strauss's loan sharking or the grime of tavern brawls, the name Mr. Downs meant nothing to them.
Seeing their genuine interest, the laborer leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Gentlemen, how can I put it? Mr. Downs, for all his show of piety, is the ultimate hypocrite!"
He spat the words, bitterness lacing each syllable.
"The man's got consumption, tuberculosis eating him from the inside out. His family? Dirt poor. Can barely afford a scrap of food. His son and wife live worse than the lowliest of us laborers. Yet he constantly borrows money, at rates that would make a loan shark blush, all to fund his 'charity,' hoping it'll buy him a ticket to heaven."
The laborer shook his head, a grimace distorting his face.
"Mr. Downs himself admits his small farm wouldn't fetch enough to cover his debts if he sold it. Meaning poor Mrs. Downs and her boy? They'll be beggars, vagrants, once he's gone. So, I ask you, gentlemen, is his so-called kindness truly anything more than a twisted, damnable hypocrisy?"
Davey and Arthur sat stunned, the laborer's words painting a brutal, unexpected portrait of the man they had mocked. Before they could formulate a response, the general store door creaked open, and Dutch's resonant voice cut through the street's din.
"Ah, poor Mr. Downs. His deeds will never grant him passage to heaven. He neglects his own wife and children. I hardly think God will forgive that sin. Don't you agree, mister?"
Dutch emerged, Hosea at his side, his gaze sweeping over the scene, finally settling on Downs, still diligently, desperately, fundraising in the distance. A flicker of something akin to disgust, yet laced with a strange, calculating pity, crossed Dutch's face.
He then turned to David and Arthur, his expression tightening with a rare gravity.
"Davey, Arthur, ensure the others in the gang keep their distance from Mr. Downs. I'll not have any of you contracting tuberculosis, children."
His voice, usually so smooth, held an edge of steel.Davey shrugged, a dismissive flick of his hand.
"Oh, Dutch, no need for such fear. We'll have no dealings with the likes of him."
He rose, a lithe movement.Arthur followed suit, his eyes meeting Dutch's.
"How fared it, Dutch? Can our clothing store plan actually be put into motion?"
A triumphant smile spread across Dutch's face, transforming his features. He gestured, leading them away from the intersection, the others quickly falling into step behind him.
"Better than expected, Arthur! The prices of the clothes… they exceeded my most optimistic projections. Excellent! Once our clothing store opens, I am certain it will yield exceptional profits!"
Dutch's words vibrated with elation. He had harbored fears that the offline prices would be exorbitant, knowing that just eight years from now, John's daily wage on a ranch would barely scratch three dollars.
Yet, a simple piece of clothing could demand thirty, even eighty dollars, a seemingly unrealistic sum. But the reality was different. While not as outrageously priced as he had imagined, a complete gentleman's outfit would still cost roughly forty dollars in total.
Hand-stitched suits alone commanded twenty-five, with ties, pants, and shoes easily pushing the total higher. The raw material costs of the era, coupled with the intensive manual labor involved, justified the expense.
Fur coats, however, were another beast entirely, a single one fetching hundreds of dollars, heirlooms passed down generations. Even during robberies, a quality coat was a prized target, underscoring the vast discrepancies in clothing values.
The poor, he knew, rarely bought new clothes, often growing their own cotton or paying a dollar for someone to process it for them.Dutch's gaze swept over his own men, their leather coats and sturdy garments, a fortune collectively worth hundreds of dollars.
The Van der Linde Gang, despite their nomadic existence, was, in fact, remarkably wealthy.And Dutch was ecstatic. While average incomes would swell dramatically with the turn of the century, seizing this opportunity now meant grasping the reins of their future.
Timing, he knew, was far more crucial than the sheer accumulation of money.It was 1899. By 1900, the average annual income across the entire U.S. was a mere $438, and that figure was skewed by the East Coast; the West was far poorer.
Yet, just two decades later, by 1920, that average would surge to $1,407—a three to fourfold increase. This wasn't just growth; it was a seismic shift, signaling the approach of unprecedented opportunities.
If they seized it, the Van der Linde Gang would not merely survive; they would thrive. Dutch wouldn't let this moment slip through his fingers. He would mold this gang into an empire, a force that would shape their destiny. And the presidency, indeed, awaited.